


Start with my name

by Vanda_Kirkova



Category: SPN RPS
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 15:31:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanda_Kirkova/pseuds/Vanda_Kirkova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>English is not my native language, so this work is strange and may be very bad :)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Start with my name

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my native language, so this work is strange and may be very bad :)

It’s raining heavily outside. As though the skies broke down and decided to flood a poor village.  
Sometimes Jared thinks that he can hear waves, striking on the rocky shore, through the noise of the shower. But it’s nearly true due to all the sounds mixing up into one incredible buzz.  
He stands up and closes the window in the living room. The curtains are dripping wet because of rain, and drops of cold water are making another puddle on the old wooden floor.  
Jared returns to his room almost by touch - the house is lit by the light of only one candle. He doesn’t need more – he can cope with his typewriter even in a sheer darkness.  
“So, where did we stop?” Jared says hoarsely, stretching and looking at his hands – his fingertips are painted in black, hardly calloused under this paint.  
“It’s raining outside,” the voice from the dark answers.  
“Yes, exactly ... and it’s raining here, too” Jared whispers.  
For a while, nothing but the deafenly loud clatter of his "Underwood" and the sound of drops falling from the ceiling into a basin at the threshold between rooms can be heard in semidarkness. The house is dying slowly, but that's alright. Jared needs only one thing - to finish...

“Aren’t you tired?” caring and warm hands glide over his shoulders, pulled up a quilt, straightening it behind him.  
“No, I really need to finish it,” Jared says sadly. “Jensen, you know that it should be done as soon as possible...”  
“I do,” Jensen sits on his haunches beside him and strokes his forearms, then takes one of his hands and beckons Jared to give him another one. He puts out his hands without question, palms up. Jensen strokes his fingers, gently pressing against callosities. They aren’t fresh, they don’t hurt. It's just a rough skin, worn to blood once, but now ... just like that.  
“I love your hands,” Jensen whispers.  
“Thanks,” Jared responds, and his eyes are welling with tears. He knows why, but the reason is too stupid.  
“You need a rest ...”  
“You too ... I need more time, Jensen ... I have just a little bit left to end...”  
Jensen lifts up his eyes to Jared, enormous in the uneven candlelight .  
“Are you angry with me, Jensen?” whispers Jared and feels a tear rolling down his cheek.  
“No,” Jensen answers firmly and with a smile. He’s always smiling, so that the room is getting lighter. He bows his head and kisses each of Jared’s fingers. The damned black paint remains on the lips. “Write...”  
And Jared does. One phrase has remained. The most difficult one. The last one.

«The rain smudged the red spot on a blue shirt. Either a raindrop or a tear was falling down from Jensen’s eyelashes. No one could have told apart for the time being.  
He sighed for the last time and smile petrified on his face.

The End"

Jared wipes the face with the back of his hand, whispers "Sorry" and blows out the candle.  
The house is cold. The water is still dropping into the basin from the ceiling.

The morning brings a frosty winter wind, which opens the windows in the kitchen and living room. But the sky is blue, and even the chirping birds are heard from somewhere. Jared has a stuffy nose and sore throat, but he’ll leave that place soon and receive some medical treatment. It’s strange that he hasn’t noticed before how cold it is on the coast.

He closes the window and comes up to the typewriter. He’s done everything right. The trilogy is finished, as he planned, but why does he feel so empty?  
A thick pile of pages - it's six months of his life. A stack of sheets - all the pain and fear must have gone away. He finished. Brought it into the world. Done. But he feels no joy about it. And he cannot leave.

Coffee feels like sandpaper in his throat, and burns his gullet. Tasteless trash. And there is no food. Too bad. Curling up on the couch does not work. Jared wraps into four blankets, but can’t get warm. He is trembling with cold. He’s crying.

It’s dark outside, when he manages to open his eyes and understands that swallowing is an impossible task. Jared more likely has fever. But he thinks that he knows what to do ...  
The last page of the novel turns into a strange pattern of crosses ... If you look closely, squinting up your eyes, you can see, in unsteady and ghostly light of the melted candle, a needlework with the island and lighthouse on the page. He might be delirious, whispering “Come on, now!”, constantly pressing X, “Come on ...”

Familiar warm hands, as yesterday, straighten the plaid behind his back, slide over his shoulders. Then Jensen touches his fingers and removes his hands from the typewriter.  
“Sorry,” Jared whispers, “It is wrong ... not right ...”  
“It’s okay,” Jensen’s lips tickle his ear. “Everything is good ... I'm with you ...”  
“Forgive me ... I can’t ... I shouldn’t ...”  
“Shh, it’s okay... maybe someday you'll be bored with me ... but now ...”  
Jensen ceases his lulling caress for a moment. He messes around the machine, inserts a blank sheet of paper under the carriage. Jared sees the flame of a candle shining through Jensen. But he’s not scared.  
“And now – write,” Jensen whispers in his ear, again. He gently kisses him on the cheek, sits on the floor and puts his head on Jared’s thigh. “Just start with my name ...”

The house is getting warmer, the wind is falling down and only "Underwood" is ticking its well-known melody.


End file.
